Murder on the Salsette (6 page)

“I hope so, Miss Greenwood.”

“You look so different in daylight.”

“So do you—no roller skates.”

Lois was wearing a calf-length cotton dress with long sleeves and a straw hat with a floppy brim. Now that he could see her face properly, he noticed how pretty she was. Her smile was infectious.

“Do you know anything about geography?” she asked.

“A little. Why?”

“You can settle an argument I had with Daddy. He thinks we're sailing across the Indian Ocean but I believe it's the Arabian Sea. The thing is, I don't know where the dividing line between the two of them is.”

“It's a question of latitude, Miss Greenwood.”

“That's a bit technical for me.”

“I can't give you precise bearings,” said Dillman, “but my guess is that you're right. We are crossing the Arabian Sea.”

“Wonderful! I'll be able to crow over Daddy for once.”

“Not exactly. The Arabian Sea is only the northwest arm of the Indian Ocean so, in that sense, your father is correct, as well.”

“Oh, phooey!”

“Let's call it a dead heat, shall we?”

“I wanted to win.”

“Then play football with your father on roller skates.” She giggled happily. “What are you doing in this part of the world, anyway?”

“We had a holiday with my uncle and aunt.”

“Where do they live?”

“In Bombay. Uncle David is the manager of a company that exports cotton. They have more servants than I could count. They did everything for us. It was a marvelous experience,” she said. “The girls at school will be green with envy when I tell them.”

“There can't be many of them who get to visit India.”

“Only me. What about you, Mr. Dillman—why are you here?”

“I stopped off in Bombay on my way back from Australia.”

“You've been
there
,” she cried, eyes widening in wonder. “You must be an explorer or something.”

“Just a tourist, seeing the sights.”

“Do they have any sights in Australia? I thought it was full of ostriches, kangaroos, and those funny little black men.”

“Aborigines.”

“That's right—oh, and all those convicts we transported there.”

Dillman was amused. “It's not a penal colony anymore, Miss Greenwood,” he said with a tolerant smile. “Some of those convicts went on to live useful lives and start all kinds of flourishing enterprises. Their descendants are still enjoying the fruits of their efforts.”

“Daddy says that Australia is still very primitive.”

“They don't play football on roller skates, if that's what you mean.”

She giggled again. “I've always liked sports,” she confided.

“What else do you play?”

“Tennis, lacrosse, rounders—that's a kind of baseball. I also cycle, swim, and I've started taking fencing lessons at school.”

“When do you find time to do any work?”

“I don't, if I can help it,” she said. “Oh, the other thing I love doing is tobogganing. When there's an icy spell, the hill behind our house makes the most wonderful slide. It's like being in Switzerland.”

“You obviously keep yourself fit, Miss Greenwood.”

“What sports do you play?”

“Sailing is my real passion,” he told her. “You might say that I was born with a rudder in my hands. My father makes a living building large yachts. I was lucky enough to take many of them on sea trials.”

Lois was impressed. “I say! You're an explorer and a navigator!”

“Not quite.”

“I wish that Daddy did something as exciting as that.”

“Doesn't he?”

“No,” she complained. “He has the most boring job in the world. I don't know how he puts up with it. All those meetings, all those people he has to be nice to when he can't possibly like them. Mummy says that he's an important man, but I think his work is tedious.”

“Why—what does he do?”

“He's a member of Parliament.”

Genevieve spent the whole morning on the case, interviewing the steward who looked after Madame Roussel's cabin, checking to see if any passengers had been absent from the second-class
dining saloon on the previous evening, and puzzling over the identity of the Frenchwoman's male admirer. But she never completely forgot her conversation with Tabitha Simcoe. Filled with remorse for having upset her, she hoped that she would have the opportunity to make amends over luncheon.

On her way to the dining saloon, however, she was intercepted by Paulo Morelli. The Italian was patently delighted with his assignment. He handed her an envelope and gave her a dazzling grin.

“I was just about to push this under your door, Miss Masefield.”

“Thank you,” she said, glancing at the envelope.

“It's from Mr. Cannadine.”

“So I see.”

“I think, maybe, that he wishes to see you.”

“Why—have you read the contents?”

“No, no,” said Morelli, holding up his hands. “I would never do that. We are forbidden to open any mail belonging to passengers. We are only allowed to go into the cabins by request.”

“Yet you went into Mrs. Simcoe's cabin yesterday,” she noted.

“That was only by chance,
signorina
. I knock on the door to introduce myself, and I hear these groans from inside. Somebody needed help,” he said, changing the facts to make himself look like a savior. “I had to let myself in.”

“It's a good job that you did, Paulo.”

“I know. Since then, I go in and out of that door many times.”

“Yes, I understand that Mrs. Simcoe had breakfast in her cabin.”

“The two ladies, they have lunch there, as well.”

“Oh,” said Genevieve, realizing that she would have to postpone her attempted reconciliation with Tabitha. “I didn't know that.”

“They send for me all morning,” explained Morelli, as if it were a mark of favor. “They play the card game with friends. They call for tea, then more tea, then more tea again. This bridge, it is a thirsty game.”

“With whom did they play?”

“Mr. Nevin and a nice English lady, Mrs. Ackroyd. I am her steward, as well. Her husband speaks a little Italian, so we talk together.” He beamed at her. “I have to go now. Mrs. Simcoe and her daughter will want to see the menu.”

“Thank you for this, Paulo,” said Genevieve, holding up the letter.

“Is my pleasure.”

He clicked his heels, gave her an elaborate bow, then walked away. Genevieve slit open the envelope and read the note inside.

“Oh, no!” she sighed. “Not again.”

George Dillman seized his opportunity. Seeing her alone in the second-class lounge that afternoon, he introduced himself to Madame Roussel and was invited to sit beside her. She ran an appraising eye over him and was clearly impressed with what she saw.

“I am glad that you come and not the English lady.”

“Miss Masefield is a very competent detective,” he assured her.

“Is her manner that I not like, monsieur.”

“There was obviously a misunderstanding. She asked me to apologize on her behalf, and to talk to you about the case.”

“My jewelry, it is found?”

“Not yet, I fear,” he said, “but there's been a development. I've just come from the purser. There's been another theft. A lady from second class was on deck this morning when her purse was taken.”

“What interest is that to me? All I care for is my jewelry.”

“We think that the same thief may be responsible.”

“So?”

“He must be a second-class passenger and will probably strike again a number of times. That means he will accumulate quite a haul by the end of the voyage, Madame Roussel,” he pointed out.
“He'll have far too many valuables to hide easily. When we search baggage as people disembark, we are certain to find him.”

“I cannot do without my things until then!”

“I thought it might comfort you.”

“I want my jewelry now, monsieur.”

“I only wish that I could oblige, but these things take time.”

“If I do not get my jewelry back, my lawyer will sue P and O.”

“There'll be no need for that,” said Dillman firmly. “In any case, you have to accept some of the blame yourself. According to my partner, you left the door of your cabin unlocked.”

“I was in a hurry when I leave.”

“Yes, that's the other thing. You had cocktails with a friend, I hear. Miss Masefield wondered if he'd be able to give us a clear idea of what time you went to his cabin.”

“I speak to him. It was not long after five o'clock.”

“Then you were out of your own cabin for all of six hours. The thief could have struck at any time during that period.” He rubbed his chin in thought before turning back to her. “I don't suppose that it would be possible for me to talk to your friend?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Is there any particular reason?”

“I not wish it. That is enough.”

“May I ask how long you've known this gentleman?”

“Why?”

“Because it would be instructive to hear if he's an old friend or a recent acquaintance. If it's someone you've only just met,” said Dillman, choosing his words with care, “someone whom you don't really know, we have to consider the outside possibility that he may have been involved in the crime.”

“Ridiculous, monsieur!”

“Thieves often work in harness. One distracts, the other strikes.”

“My friend is not a thief.”

“You can vouch for him, then?”

“Yes,” she said, vehemently, “I can. You insult me as much as that lady I talk to this morning. She tell me it is all
my
fault.”

“That's not what Miss Masefield said.”

“Now you ask if I go into the cabin of a man I only just meet.” She sat forward angrily in her deck chair. “What sort of woman you think I am, monsieur? One who has a drink with strangers?”

“No, Madame Roussel,” he said, trying to mollify her. “That's not what I think at all. Let's forget all about it, shall we?”

“Is only one way to make me do that.”

“What is it?”

“Find my jewelry.”

“I will,” promised Dillman.

“Before the end of the voyage?” she insisted.

He swallowed hard. “You have my word on it.”

Dinner that evening was a formal affair. European men wore white tie and tails and the women appeared in a variety of evening gowns, some sober, others arresting, and a few quite daring. Indian wives aboard were not to be outdone. Bedecked in gold bangles and wearing their best saris or
salwar kameez
, they brought a blaze of color and exoticism to the occasion. Genevieve Masefield had selected a gown of cream satin that was trimmed with
chine
ribbon at the hem and the sleeves. She had brushed her hair up and held it in position with two ivory slides. Her only item of jewelry was the beautiful opal necklace that Dillman had bought for her in Australia. It set off her whole outfit.

Music was playing as she entered the dining saloon. Still eager to smooth Tabitha Simcoe's ruffled feathers, she intended to sit at her table but saw that she was too late. Constance Simcoe and her daughter already had dining companions. Though they acknowledged Genevieve as she walked past, there was no warmth in their
smiles. She could see that Tabitha was still wounded by her earlier remarks.

At another table, Genevieve received a more cordial welcome.

“Would you care to join us, Miss Masefield?” said Wilbur Rollins.

“Oh, thank you,” she replied, taking the chair that he held out for her. “That's very kind of you, Mr. Rollins.”

“Allow me to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Ackroyd.”

Genevieve was interested to meet Phoebe Ackroyd. The latter was a small, fussy woman in a green dress and coils of pearls. She peered at the newcomer through spectacles. Her husband, Gerald Ackroyd, was a silver-haired man in his sixties with a goatee. Since he had a hearing problem, he missed a great deal of the conversation but his wife talked enough for both of them.

“I understand that you played bridge this morning, Mrs. Ackroyd,” said Genevieve. “With Mrs. Simcoe and her daughter.”

“How do you know that?” asked the other woman.

“Tabitha asked me to play but I was unable to accept her offer.”

“I wish that you had, Miss Masefield. You'd have been a better partner than the one I had.”

“Mr. Nevin?”

“That was him. He couldn't seem to keep his mind on the game. It was most frustrating. We never won a single penny.”

“You played for
money
?” said Rollins in surprise.

“Of course. It adds piquancy to the game.”

“I didn't realize I was dining with a professional gambler.”

“I played like an amateur this morning, Mr. Rollins,” she said. “Thanks to Mr. Nevin. I was so irritated that I went back again this afternoon with Gerald. He can hear quite well with his ear trumpet.”

“What's that, my dear?” asked her husband.

She raised her voice. “Your ear trumpet, dear!”

“Left it in the cabin.”

“I'm talking about the game of bridge we played.”

“Ah, yes, capital. Charming ladies.”

“We have a system, you see,” explained Mrs. Ackroyd to the others. “It worked quite well at first. But Mrs. Simcoe and her daughter had the most outrageous run of luck, and, if truth be told, Gerald was not at his most alert as the afternoon wore on.”

“But he was an improvement on Mr. Nevin,” said Genevieve.

“Oh, yes. A vast improvement.”

Inclined to be garrulous, Mrs. Ackroyd could also listen when a subject engaged her, and she was mesmerized by what she heard of the forthcoming book by Wilbur Rollins. She elbowed her husband.